


salt

by sonicSymphony



Series: Particlestuck [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, F/M, Gills, Hermaphroditic Trolls, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicSymphony/pseuds/sonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve always been a troll of the sea, even if you never liked getting your fins wet.</p><p>So what does a troll of the sea do when there is no ocean to sail?</p>
            </blockquote>





	salt

**Author's Note:**

> Unless someone prompts something on my fanfic blog, this is it for Particlestuck! If you haven't read _ashes_ or _stardust_ first, you'll probably be fine, though backstory does come into play.
> 
> I merged two drafts of this on Microsoft Word that were nearly identical but when I pasted it here, some of the words I replaced smashed together to make brilliant typos. I think I caught them all, but if you see one I missed, please don't hesitate to tell me!

“I am so fucking sick,” the front door slams the wall when Kar thrusts it open, making you flinch and nearly drop the faulty blast compartmentalizer and screwdriver you’re using to tighten a bolt, “of these flighty, nook-billed _vermin_ that pick battles and then expect _me_ to fight them!”

“Having problems with the avialae again, darling?” you ask, putting your parts down and taking the magnifying clip off your glasses.

He huffs, closing the door with enough force to rattle the porcelain plates stacked in the food preparation block. Then, abruptly as he entered, he’s moving from his rooted position in the entryway to slide into your lap, wrapping his arms around your neck so he can let out a muffled scream into your shoulder. You nuzzle the top of his head, politely ignoring (for the moment) that you’re groin-to-groin, and say, “Well, at least my meeting to secure my weapon supply contract for that Fleet officer went well.”

“Did I fucking _ask_ about your day?” he says in a low, venomous tone, flicking the back of the bottom tine of your left fin. “Because if I _wanted_ to hear about how you managed to get some low-ranking nooksniffer to do ceremonial dances in fields of wildflowers and make daisy chains with you while taking periodic breaks to suck your bulge and call you pretty, I would’ve made some sort of mention that I care.”

You make a wounded noise, low in your throat, but you how he doesn’t really mean it—Kar just yells at things to unwind, and often that thing is you. It’s your duty to put up with it, seeing as he dealt with all of your mopey shit back at the beginning, and it would be a lot harder if you didn’t find his rants adorable most of the time.

Adorable in a pants-shittingly terrifying way, that is. You would’ve liked to see Kar in command of soldiers, he’d probably have a mutiny-free record and the ability to scream enemy captains into submission.

He sighs, long and hard, so you leave a peck on his jawline and reach around him to start cleaning up your gun repair stuff. Once it’s all neatly tucked away in one of your many tool cases, you get up, Kar’s legs clenching around your torso as always to get a good gri—

 _Fuck_.

You hiss a breath through your teeth, eyes snapping shut against the pain as you fall back into the chair. Immediately, Kar drops his annoyed schtick and he unclamps his legs, scooting as far away from your body as he can while still being in your lap. “I’m sorry, shit, was it the bioflesh side?”

Blinking a few times, you let the pain roll off your back. Before, it was like someone had shoved a knife in your gills, but now it just feels like someone decided to rub sandpaper over the flaps. You shake your head slightly, wondering where the hell _that_ came from. “Nah, Kar, it’s the side that actually _has_ gills.”

Concern makes his eyebrows pull together, and you lift your hand, using your thumb to smooth out the lines of his forehead. “It’s probably nothing,” you tell him, even though on the inside, your thoughts are a mess of _oh god oh god I’m gonna die, I have gill cancer or cysts or some sort of fucked up parasite, goodbye cruel world; Fef I’m gonna be seein’ you again pretty soon_.

He looks at you like you just shat out a bottle of grubsauce before gripping the hem of your shirt and gently lifting it up. “The skin around them looks a bit more violet than usual,” he deduces, “but I really don’t see anything wrong. Flex so I can see the insides.”

“Kar, I haven’t opened them up in so long, it ain’t an issue with getting something stuck in them,” you reassure him.

“Well, maybe not opening them is the problem,” he reasons. “They need to be cleaned, or something. Now do it.”

“They’re self-cleansing,” you defend yourself before making the flaps open, baring your insides to the world.

There’s a reason you don’t like to do anything with them all that much. After losing half of them to a slaughter and a land dweller bioflesh patch, even opening them up feels strange. Your smooth, gill-free side always ripples when you activate the other, but there’s skin over the structures and unless you had some really extensive plastic surgery that you’d only be able to get off-colony, the left over body parts will never be used again.

Kar makes a noise like _he’s_ the one who was just in agony, leaning closer and lightly touching the inside of one of the flaps with his thumb. You clench your teeth as the pain flares, and he quickly retracts his hand. “It’s so cracked and inflamed under there, Eridan, no wonder it hurts. Come on, let’s head to the ablution trap.”

“I know my own gills,” you reassure him, “they’re probably just chapped. The used to get kinda irritated during the cold season, and it’s pretty chilly outside.”

“You know what?” he says. “I don’t believe you, especially because the filaments look brittle as _hell_ and I _think_ I see blood, so I’m going to look some stuff up on WebTD and you’re going to take a bath, okay?”

Scoffing, you say, “Oh look at you, taking control like a fuckin’ tyrant. Maybe _you_ should’ve made a grab for the throne.” _Maybe you would’ve actually succeeded._

“But think of all the ulcers that would’ve given me,” he jokes, trying to make the atmosphere a little less gloomy. He noticed the darker mood your comment brought on, and he tries to clear away some of the bitterness by brushing the top tine of your fin with his thumb. “ _Please_ don’t be stubborn about this. I’ll wash your hair,” he coaxes.

With a sigh, you get up, lifting Kar by his armpits so you don’t dump him on the floor before placing him on his feet. “Fine,” you relent, “I’ll try to use them, see if it’ll do any good.”

The tub of the ablution trap is just long enough for you to lie down in, and you fill it up as high as you can and sink into the steaming water. It feels excellent on your skin but the second you open up your gill flaps and expose your insides, it _burns_.

You gasp, frantically switching back to your land respiratory system and coughing. A small cloud of purple leaks into the water surrounding your gills, and you run your fingers over the slits in an attempt to soothe them. Karkat chooses this moment to come in, carrying a container of salt. “No fucking way,” you say immediately.

“From what I read online—”

“Kar, it felt like I was gonna tear in half when I just tried it in freshwater,” you tell him, not caring if he thinks you’re the bad kind of pathetic. “If you add salt, I legitimately think it will kill me.”

“Look,” he snaps, glancing down at his palmhusk, “you’re not going to get any better by ignoring the issue and languishing in your puddle of self-pity. Your gill flaps are raw from being pressed together for so long in a moist environment without being flexed, and you filaments are brittle from disuse too. I know you didn’t go in the water much on Alternia, but you still did a couple times a perigee, plus you took baths. It’s been almost two sweeps without any of that.”

You interrupt, “Are you trying to schoolfeed me on my own damn body? I think I know more than you about sea dweller anatomy, Kar. Also, if you’re right, then why didn’t my other side flare up in agony when you pressed it earlier? The filaments are all still under the skin.”

“It was the flap irritation that caused the pain,” he says. “You won’t hurt a filament unless you take a deep breath, because at this point, it’s likely that something’s going to snap if you apply too much force. You’re going to have to be careful, Eridan.”

“Well, I’m not taking a saltwater bath,” you sulk, crossing your arms over your chest.

Kar releases a long-suffering sigh, and you only feel kinda bad. “There’s cream I can get for you,” he proposes instead, putting the salt on the counter and shoving his palmhusk in his pocket. “It’ll help soothe your flaps somewhat before we introduce the salt bath. I can go get it now.”

He always tries to watch out for you, even when you’re at your most petty and difficult, and you feel bad for giving him such a hard time when he’s only trying to help. “Love, it’s getting late, you don’t have to,” you tell him, reaching out. Understanding your cue, he walks closer and takes your hand. “I’ll be fine for another day, it won’t make a difference.”

“Nope, the idea’s in my head, I’m going.” Leaning forward, he kisses your forehead, squeezing your hand before letting go and stepping back. “I know the brand, they sell it at the pharmacy just up the street. I’ll just have to mix some salt in and it’ll go right to work fixing you up.” As you open your mouth to protest, he shoots you a look that makes you snap it shut. “Don’t protest, moron. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

After he leaves, you soak in the bath, careful not to let any water seep into your gills. Laying your head back makes the tips of your horns scrape the edge of the bath as you let your eyes flutter shut.

You must doze off, because it feels like less than a minute has passed when Karkat returns. Your eyes open when he unplugs the drain at your feet, and you watch tiredly as he walks over to the counter, squirts out some of the ointment, pours some salt on it, and mixes it with his finger. “It’s probably going to sting,” he warns you, “but still, dry off and get over here.”

Exhaling through your nose, you stand, exposing Kar to your naked glory. You still feel lopsided and scarred and quite a bit broken, but he makes you smile when he wipes the gook off his finger and reaches for your fluffy purple towel, loping over to you and wrapping it around your shoulders. You left him dry you off, purring low in your throat at the tender look on his face. It’d be a pale gesture from almost anyone else; you’ve learned that he just likes to take care of people. To make it easier on him, you get on your knees, dipping your head forward so he can towel your hair. The crown of your head goes up to his shoulder like this, and you’ve always found it funny that this height difference is closer than your usual one.

He’s very careful around your gills, and as his hand often does, it pauses on the patchy bioflesh scar. Your breath hitches and rolls into a chirr as he runs his claws lightly over your damaged skin. The area is sensitive, and that doesn’t mean that it only ever causes you pain; Kar has figured out how to make it feel _amazing_. As the drying continues downward, he asks, “How’s your hip?”

“Better than my gills,” you snort. “These days it’s pretty manageable.”

“I still think you should’ve kept the physical therapy schoolfeed one of the trolls in Vriska’s medbay gave you,” Karkat sighs, leaning down to peck your lips.

“Whatever, it’s not like it matters now,” you say, pitching forward until he has no choice but to let your head fall onto his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you, and you drop a kiss on his clavicle. “You don’t get to complain, anyway; I finally bought that fuckin’ cane after all your nagging.”

“And it was a good idea, so shut the fuck up.” He flicks the tip of your left horn, and it sends a shock all the way down your spine. “Now, stop stalling, it’s time to use the cream.”

He’s careful as can be, fingers feather-light as they dance across your gills, coaxing the flaps open so he can rub a thin layer of the milky white ointment on the irritation. All the while, you breathe loudly out of your mouth, eyes squeezed shut to combat the intense stinging. It feels like an eternity before he’s done, and it burns even as it sits, but after a minute or two it soaks in enough that the feeling becomes almost soothing.

“The cream needs to be applied three times a day until you can comfortably flex your gillflaps,” he tells you, putting a cap on the tube and setting it on the counter. “You need to get used to opening and closing them again, so you’re not allowed to just keep them clamped together all the time.”

“You’re not my lusus,” you mutter, standing. Karkat has been leading you along enough tonight, you think. As you head back to the bedroom and Kar starts to change out of his work uniform, you don’t let him put on the pajamas he’d pulled out. You just lure him over to you, and once he’s within your reach you take his wrists and pull him down on top of you. As your mouth captures his and you coax his bulge out of its sheath, you decide that getting yourself blown to shit was worth it if that’s the only way Kar could’ve become your matesprit.

(…Though losing Fef still hurts every single damn day.)

 

* * *

 

Thanks to Kar’s nagging, you put cream on your gills religiously, and in about a week you’re healed enough for a saltwater bath. It still stings and there’s a strange pressure inside of you from the weak filaments readapting to the water, but you figure if you keep this up once a day for a perigee they’ll be back to full strength. As you take a full breath of water for the first time a sweep and change, you adjust accordingly—instead of taking small gulps like you’re used to, you have to swallow large amounts of water to compensate for lacking half your gills, but you have to be careful not to take _too_ much and put extra stress on the filaments.

The day after you take your first bath, you head to your gun shop to find a note on your desk from Mhar-pha (the old treskian you used to work for before opening your own place) requesting a case of MS-47 scopes, because she knows you keep a good stock of them since you can adapt them to pretty much any gun. Seeing as no one is currently shopping, you take a box of ten and lock up, heading a few stalls over to her makeshift metal store.

There are customers in _her_ shop. Avialae tend to be more skittish than treskians and trolls, so they flinch and move closer to the wall as you push the ratty curtain aside and enter. You take them in nonchalantly until the owner snaps, “Stop intimidating my customers, Er-i-dan.”

She’s always said your name strangely, as her people add much more separation between syllables when it comes to titles. Shrugging, you stride over to the counter and plop the box of scopes down in front of her. “That’ll be six hundred credits,” you tell her in common. Despite your initial trouble with the language, you’re nearly fluent in it now.

“Really, _chrakfuul_ , I know the standard price is five hundred,” she chastises, using the treskian word for “endearing dumbfuck” to criticize you, “so that is what I will give you.”

You prop your cane against her workstation and sigh, planting your elbows on the counter and placing your chin in your hands as you watch her fingers dart on the tablet in front of her, making the transaction. Her claws tap against the glass surface; like all treskians, they’re black and raised and tube-like until they end in a sharp, curved point. Before you got to know Mhar-pha, you through _troll_ claws were the pointiest. “You never let me make a profit on _anything_ , do you?"

“That is because you are not a clever businessman like you believe you are,” she quips. “You forget you used to be my employee, I know how you work. And while you were here, I would like to ask you again about _The_ _Ocean’s Heiress_ —”

“I still won’t give you the blueprints,” you interrupt without vigor. You’ve had the conversation with her ten times at this point, and you’re no longer angry at her persistence.

Shaking her head slowly, she says, “You would get a percentage of my profits if you sold it here as well, and yet you remain stubborn. Moirallegiance is a strange quadrant.”

It is. It’s also one you used to think was useless until Fef managed to prove to you it could be so much _more_. To this day, you wonder how much she despised you in her final moments, because you let her down and ran away so her dreams could die before she even got to duel, and the fact that you’ll never truly know makes you want to scream until your throat bleeds. Instead of dwelling on that, you try to honor her in small ways, like using her as inspiration for a gun that doesn’t kill.

Mhar-pha can tell her comment made you upset, but she doesn’t apologize; her people are emotionally blunt, and she doesn’t feel a need to act contrite just because she poked at an old wound. The tablet beeps, declaring the transaction successful, and you’re about to leave the store when a timid voice from behind you asks, “Um, excuse me?”

Just like every time you face an avialae, you’re bombarded with the image of the crying girl whose loved one you killed out of spite. You’ve come to regret that impulsive action, and even though seeing another of that quilled species still incites a burning rage in the pit of your gut, you have refrained from shooting another. (You still spit at them every once in a while so you don’t go insane from repressed hate, but usually their only reaction is to flare their quills like a pufferfish.) It’s quite the accomplishment, coming from you.

“Yes?” you reply, glancing over your shoulder to arch an eyebrow at her.

“Did you say you have _The Ocean’s Heiress_? That’s a stunner, right?”

As a species of pacifists, the avialae never wish to kill, so your incapacitating stun-gun is very popular around here. “It is. If you’d like to purchase one, I’ll take you back to my shop.”

“Don’t steal my customers, _chrak_!” Mhar-pha exclaims, taking “endearing” out of the word.

You scoop up your cane and try not to lean _too_ heavily on it as you head towards the exit. “Goodbye, _shitsponge_ ,” you say; the insult is a troll word you picked up from Kar. “Just have your rustblooded errand-girl drop off another note if you need anything.”

The alien follows you back to your shop, and she takes a look at the stunner you have on display before making the purchase. After a few slow hours, you head back to your hivestem and make dinner. Kar still isn’t home from work when you’re done, so you put some tin foil over it and stick it in the oven so it stays hot. It’s really not surprising he’s not here yet (you locked up early because your hip started to ache and the stash of pain medication you keep there was dry) but you await his return with anticipation anyway.

He comes in right after six, immediately inhaling and commenting, “Oh sweet, you made beastloaf. Fuck, I’m starving.”

As he moves to walk past you, you catch him around the waist and lift him. He squawks indignantly as you kiss his cheek before plopping him back on the ground. “You’re fucking sappy,” he mutters.

“I’m charming,” you correct, “and you love it, so stop complaining.”

Once you’ve eaten dinner, Karkat says he needs to head down to the pharmacy. “You’re almost out of cream, and I need something sweet and we’re all out of ice cream. It’s a travesty.”

“I can come with you,” you offer as you clear plates off the table.

“Nah, I’ll only be a few minutes,” he says, grabbing his key and wallet.

He’s gone about ten seconds later, and you busy yourself with cleaning up the food preparation block until there’s a knock at the door. Frowning, you reason Kar couldn’t have made it there and back that quickly, and you _know_ he didn’t forget his key. When you open the door, you think it could be one of the guys you met in your line of work or the landlord or some random lowlife trying to sell something. Anyone, really, would’ve been likelier to drop by than Tavros Nitram.

As you blink owlishly at him, his free hand reaches to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m glad I found the right place,” he says, huffing an awkward laugh that hardly lasts a beat. “I was afraid, that the… ah, people down at the landing docks confused you with, some other troll. But no. Here you are.”

You regain some of your composure, smoothing your face into something less astonished. He’s just some crippled lowblood, nothing to get excited over, even though you wonder what’s in the canvas sack he’s holding.

“I can’t really stay long,” he continues, shifting his weight from one metal foot to the other. “Not that you’d want me to. I mean, you’re kind of a jerk. But I have something for you. And Vriska asked me, if you wanted to get a drink later. Karkat too if, um. If he’s around.”

“He’ll be back in a few minutes,” you say, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. Even though the shitblood has insulted you, you step aside to let him in. He has to slide through the door sideways to avoid hitting his gargantuan horns on the doorframe, and you point to the couch, where he delicately perches himself on the edge. He looks like a mewbeast that knows it’s about to be beaten with a stick.

You give him a decency point when he doesn’t laugh at the way you walk. He would’ve said something passive aggressive, if Fef hadn’t been murdered and you were still on disdainful terms, but you guess you’re too pitiful now to be mocked about things you can’t really control.

“I guess I’ll say hi to him, before I leave,” Tav says, both of his hands curling around the neck of the bag. You sit down on the opposite end of the couch, as far away from him as you can. You don’t offer him anything to eat or drink, like a good host does, and he doesn’t seem to care. “Here’s some things.” He abruptly holds out the bag, and you hear the jingle of metal clacking together. “That I thought you should have. Don’t,” he says when you’re about to peer inside, “open it yet. I want to be gone, when you do.”

That’s when Karkat comes back, and you fade into the background as they exchange pleasantries and converse about what they’ve been up to over the past sweep. You tune it all out, because you don’t particularly care.

“You’ll do that, right?” Kar asks, and you start, eyes focusing. He’s looking straight at you, the expression on his face irked. “Eridan, were you even listening?”

Your mouth opens and closes, fins doing the inverse. He sighs, saying, “Do you want to meet Tavros, Vriska, and Kanaya down at _Blade’s_ later? That’s the only place,” he asides to Tav, “that serves Alternian booze. All the other stuff is shit.”

“Okay,” you find yourself saying, even though you’re already starting to feel dread creep in. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” he says, getting up and leading Tavros to the door. “See you at nine,” he tells him before locking him out. Turning back around, he walks back to the couch, sitting much closer to you than he was before. “What’d he bring you?”

“I don’t know,” you say, pulling the strings on the sides to open the bag. “Let’s—”

Your voice dies in your throat, face going slack. You recognize the colors, the bands. Tentatively, you reach in, pulling out a necklace made from tubes of pink coral and azure pearls. You let the jewelry pool in your palms, not completely comprehending until you swallow the lump in your throat.

Fef’s. Everything in the bag belonged to Fef.

Someone must’ve taken it all from your ship, when you were recovering and Kar was busy taking care of you. There wasn’t much to be salvaged, as the brigands had stripped the entire ship dry, but you guess they weren’t in the market for gold because all of her bangles and cuffs are here. The only piece of jewelry missing is her circlet.

Karkat watches you quietly, concern written plainly on his face. To mollify him, you give him a small smile that says _don’t worry, I’m not going to blow a gasket/cry,_ patting his knee reassuringly.

You want to just dump the entire bag into your lap so you can see it all at once _immediately_ , but you force yourself to slow down, taking each piece reverently in your hands and setting it on the couch beside you. When you get to the last piece—one of her solid gold anklets—you try to slide it over one of your wrists. It takes some maneuvering and you almost dislocate your thumb, but you make it fit, with about one centimeter of room between the dangling bit and your skin. Faintly etched into the metal is her sign, staring up at you. With a bittersweet twist of your lips, you run your fingers across it.

As you reach for something else, an engraving on the inside of the anklet (well, it’s a bracelet now, you guess) catches your eye. Your eyebrows draw together, and you tug it off your wrist, bringing it up to your face and tilting it to see better.

Your heart leaps into your throat, lips parting silently. Enraptured, you reach out, ignoring how your hand slightly shakes, and run your thumb across where your sign is carved into the gold, back-to-back with hers.

You never knew.

She’d had jewelry like this since she was three. They used to be much too loose on her, but she grew into them. You were always a little bit hurt that she never wore your color, especially since you always had her fuchsia on your rings, but she showed you so much affection that you _knew_ she loved you. It was dumb for the higher-blooded of a quadranted pair to wear the lower-blooded’s color, anyway.

But she wore your _sign_ , and even if she was the only one who ever saw, that gesture was opulently sentimental.

“It’s on this one, too,” Kar says quietly just as you bite one of your knuckles to keep from bawling. His hand reaches out cautiously, like you’re going to swat it away before he can touch anything that was hers, but you let him take one of her gold bangles and show you the inside. Once again, your sign is supporting hers from the other side. “The rest of them don’t have either of your signs, but it seems like one for her wrist and one for her ankle were enough.”

You look at the one in your hand some more, twisting it around and remembering. Closing your eyes, you take your bloody knuckle out of your mouth and clench the bangle in your hands, recalling what it felt like for her to run her fingers through your hair and how she always smelt of salt and the sea. The sound of her voice will be with you for the rest of your too long life, and though it doesn’t offer you moirailly advice anymore—grief messed with your head a _lot_ , at first—you can recollect the words she’d told you over the sweeps.

 _Pale for you,_ you remember her telling you for the first time, sitting on the sand and leaning on your shoulder, wrapped up in your cape and watching the moonrise.

 _Pale as the flickering stars_ , you replied, holding her closer to you.

 _Pale as the moonlight on cresting waves!_ She giggled then, snuggling into your embrace. You felt so warm in that moment that you thought you’d die of fever. You could trade similes as long as you wanted to, but they’d never explain how much you loved her.

“Eridan.” Kar’s voice is soft, and his hand reaches up to cup your cheek. As you lean into his touch, you realize you _are_ crying after all. “Is there anything I can do?”

Gulping, you put all the jewelry back into the bag, save for the anklet. “Nah,” you tell him, sliding closer and turning so your legs are lying across his lap. Leaning forward, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, adoring how solid he feels. “I… I think I’m okay.”

In the days between the initial shock and numb progress, you decided she died hating you. Hating you because you were supposed to protect her, hating you for being so careless, hating you for letting her die. Your moirallegiance certainly wasn’t serendipitous, and it was entirely plausible that she realized in her last moments what a despicable oaf you were.

But now you know she couldn’t have died hating you, because she never did anything but love you. Fef never had it in her to hate someone for consequences they didn’t foresee, and if she ever disdained you for anything, it would be because of how you’ve been treating yourself after her death.

 _It’ll be alright,_ she told you earnestly when the ship was about to lift off from Alternian soil, holding your face in her cool hands. _No matter what happens, no matter what the Condesce or anyone else does, it’ll be alright._

You pull the bracelet back on, and it feels like closure.

 

* * *

 

Seeing Kan and Vris again is certainly… something. You missed Kan, though not nearly as much as your matesprit did. When you first started coming out of your burrow of grief, you wondered why he’d leave her behind. Sure, Terezi and Sollux were gone, but Kanaya was just was important to him as they were. Eventually you asked him, and he responded that he felt like he was holding her back; he didn’t want her to just be his Gamzee replacement. You wondered if that would make this reunion strained, but they seem to get along just as well as ever.

You and Vriska drink your bodyweight in soporific. Though your kismesissitude with her ended by the time you were seven, you still feel a bit of the old rivalry in there somewhere, so you _can’t_ let her drink you under the table. Tavros sips on his fruity drink conservatively, like he’s been designated to watch out for the rest of you ruffians. Kar and Kan drink quite a lot too, and soon enough all five of you are heading back to your hivestem to crash for the night.

Somehow, you missed these lunatics. It might be the booze doing the thinking but right now, as you’re curled up in a pile on the carpet, you think you miss _all_ of them, not just Fef. The realization doesn’t come with the agonizing, ripping feeling that you became familiar within the early days of your stay on F12. It’s just dull and a bit surprised, like you always knew it was there but never really acknowledged it.

The next morning, as you take copious amounts of hangover drugs and start frying up some breakfast, Vriska leans against the counter next to you. “You and Vantas don’t need to keep yourselves exiled out here, you know,” she says matter-of-factly. “There’s room on the _Arachnophile_.”

What shocks you is you don’t instantaneously say _fuck no_. Instead, you find yourself chewing on the idea of becoming a part of Vriska’s crew, tearing up the universe and leaving chaos in your wake. It wouldn’t be boring, that’s for sure.

Snorting lightly, you stir the contents of the pan in front of you. “Not this time,” you tell her.

“Who says we’ll ever come back?” she questions, tossing her head and letting her hair drape everywhere.

“Well if you don’t,” you say, tapping the spoon on the side of the pan before setting it aside, “I guess I’ll just have to get my own ship and track you the fuck down. Someone’s gotta keep a panrotten fuckhole like you in line.”

“Bring it oooooooon,” she challenges, pushing herself away from you and stretching. “I’d like to see you try.”

With that dare, you start making immediate plans to see your threat through. You’ve got hundreds of sweeps to go, after all, and you don’t know how much longer any of your friends will last. Kar will probably be the first to go, with his freaky mutant blood, but when you live a life on the fringes of civilization in a misshapen ship, death is a game rather than a timer.

There’s something warm and dense pressing against your back, and strong arms wrap around your waist as Kar presses his forehead into your spine. “Is it almost ready?” _Are_ you _almost ready?_

“Yes,” you say, smiling when he clutches you tighter and purrs. As you delight in the feeling of him pressed up against you, your eyes move to the golden bangle adorning your left wrist. Between Fef and Kar, you’ve been treasured and adored more than you ever thought you could be. That sort of love doesn’t vanish with death.

With that thought, you’re ready for the future and whatever it brings.


End file.
